


tonight (i wish i was your boy)

by grumpsy



Category: Mythic Quest: Raven's Banquet (TV)
Genre: Drunk Sex, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mutual Pining, cw // swearing and alcohol use, not really - Freeform, tagging to be safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:15:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27067006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpsy/pseuds/grumpsy
Summary: David gets a call from work at 3 am.He's not alone.rewrite of the post-credits scene from s1ep9
Relationships: Brad Bakshi & David Brittlesbee, Brad Bakshi/David Brittlesbee
Comments: 3
Kudos: 51





	tonight (i wish i was your boy)

**Author's Note:**

> braddavid nation how we feeling
> 
> this is my first time writing smut so let me know if it sucks, or you can skip it if it's not your cup of tea! just skip from "The relief is palpable" to "What am I supposed to do, David?"
> 
> the title is from the 1975's song of the same name

His ringtone startles him awake. 

It’s stupidly early - around 3 in the morning or some shit - and he knows who it is without checking the caller ID. He switches on his light, squinting at the sudden brightness and picks up.

“Hello?” _Well, at least he sounds as groggy as he feels._

He winces as the audio crackles to life. Ian is screaming, something about Poppy and work - the usual bullshit, nothing too pressing that it couldn’t have waited until morning.

David sits up, “Wait, what’s going on?”

When his eyes finally adjust, Ian’s beard is taking up his phone screen.

“This was a massive, massive mistake!” 

_Oh, right_ , he thinks, brain coming back online, _Poppy’s promotion_. David had sort of zoned out on the whole situation, too preoccupied with being fired and rehired within the space of twenty-four hours and the emotional whiplash that caused. If he’d been consulted on the plan - which, thinking about it, why _wasn’t_ he consulted - he’d have told Ian it would only end in tears. And screaming. And 3 a.m calls. 

Sometimes David really hated his job.

Ian’s still speaking, or, rather, shrieking. “Listen, she’s gonna call you, and you cannot answer it.”

His phone lights up: “She’s calling me, man.”

“David, David, David. Do not answer the phone. I absolutely forbid you to--”

He answers the phone. 

This time he’s greeted by Poppy shouting. Her voice is somehow even more grating than Ian’s. 

“Oh, my God,” he all but begs, falling back onto his pillow, “Please just let me sleep.”

“No, you gotta get down here and fix this!”

He had to put his foot down. He’d stood up to corporate, he could stand up to one angry Australian.

“No,” he takes out his retainer, “No. Listen. You guys gotta get in the same room and hash it out.” There, that sounded managerial enough. 

“Oh, we’re _in_ the same room.”

Holy _shit_. It was like herding cats, or little, squirmy _fucking--_ David didn’t know - _just_ _something infinitely more frustrating_. Like herding two wildly different, neurotic co-creative directors.

Sometimes David really, _really_ hated his job.

“I can’t drive, okay? I took a Xanax and drank a bottle of wine, just so I could sleep.” That was half true. They didn’t need to know the specifics. 

“Fine. Jo, go get him.”

Jo? _God, why was he even surprised at this point?_ Of course, she was there. Jo was an agent of chaos, drifting towards drama like there was some kind of gravitational pull. Lord knows Poppy and Ian ooze drama from their pores.

Poppy turns the camera to face her. “Hey, David. I’m heading out to you now. Put your shoes on.”

_Fuck._ Jo could not come to his house right now. 

“Jo,” panic edged its way into his voice, “Jo, do not come to my house.”

But it’s too late, she’s walking out the door and Poppy’s hanging up and David is dropping his darkening phone into his lap and groaning into his hands. He’s fucked.

The body beside him shifts.

Correction: _they’re_ fucked.

“Dave?”

Brad’s squinting up at him. From his bed. Brad Bakshi is in his bed.

He’s lying on his front, naked back exposed by the bedsheet; his neck is still peppered with the stain of David’s lips. His hair is dark against the white of the pillow, curling against the fabric. He looks good. 

Yep, David is fucked.

He so desperately wants to savour this moment: Brad in his bed, lips still red from the wine, still bruised from his force. He wonders, if he shifts the sheet, if his hips will still be laden with his fingerprints. He doesn’t have the time to find out; “Jo’s on her way.” 

Brad’s eyes snap open. His car is still in David’s driveway. There’s no way Jo won’t recognise it. 

“Fuck.”

Then he’s up, frantically grabbing his stray clothes from the floor and pulling them on.

David stands, “What are you doing?”

“I can’t be here when Jo gets here.” 

“Brad, you can’t drive. You’ve been drinking.”

“What am I supposed to do, David?”

-

It started where the workday ended, with Ian handing Poppy the shovel. It would be moving if David didn’t know it would all fall to shit in under a day. Still, he clapped with the rest of the room; Poppy deserved this. 

Amidst the applause, David swears he can feel eyes on him. He brushes it off - probably just some employee confused about his presence. He _had_ made quite a big deal about being fired yesterday... 

Which, while embarrassing, wasn’t entirely unfounded. He’s not an idiot. He knows his staff don’t respect him as much as they should. Still, the lack of support for his impromptu walkout stings, no matter how much he tries to pretend it doesn’t. He knows that having a conflict-averse leader rarely succeeds, but, _fuck_ , he was working on it, on being less of a pushover. It would help if the others allowed him to reign them in sometimes, to prove he deserves this position. 

The glass encasement of the meeting room is about as thick as his confidence these days. 

With the meeting adjourned, the crowd melts away but the hairs on his neck still prickle with someone’s gaze. He looks behind him. He catches Brad quickly looking away.

_Huh, weird._

David heads back to his office to grab his stuff, picturing the hot bubble bath he had planned for when he got home. Maybe he’d even treat himself to a glass or two of wine, lord knows he deserved it. He’d found himself savouring the little things since his divorce - how he has total control of the TV remote; how he doesn’t have to race to beat his wife to the shower every morning; how he can drink and eat whatever he wants without someone trying to monitor his health. 

(The appeal of these things loses its gleam after a few months. It took David one look at his recycling bin - piled high with empty bottles and takeout containers - to give up on this fruitless pursuit of empty happiness.)

It doesn’t soothe the bone-deep, all-encompassing ache he feels as he gets into an empty king-size bed, but it helps. 

He’s in the middle of performing some weird hybrid between bending and squatting to grab his bag when he hears a noise behind him, like a gasp turned cough. David turns. He catches Brad watching him from the doorway.

“You need something?” He asks, straightening up.

Brad scans him for a moment, mouth agape, before: “Alcohol.”

A pause, and then:

“You wanna grab a drink?”

-

The bar doesn’t look like much, walls lined with dim sconces and patterned wallpaper, but one look at the wine list and it’s clear this place was not designed with David’s bank account in mind. Brad leads him to the bar and orders two Malbecs. It’s his favourite; David isn’t so sure it was a guess.

They sit on stools, velvet-covered things that David’s sure cost more than his couch. He wonders if Brad comes here often. He fits in well, seems comfortable in a way David rarely sees outside their office. He smiles at the waitress as he hands over his card, traces the rim of his glass with his middle finger, swirls his wine gracefully before taking a measured sip; David feels hypnotised. The whole rich asshole vibe really suits him. 

They sip their respective drinks until the silence gets the better of him, “What a day, huh?”

“We really don’t have to do that,” Brad says, “the small talk. Can’t we just sit and drink?”

David frowns into his drink, “In silence?”

Brad shrugs, “How is it any different from our office at work? We never talk there.”

It’s true, but for some reason, it hurts. At least in their office, they have the pretence of working. Here they have what? Bad lighting and fancy seats.

Still, David complies, because of all his bravado about being in charge, when it comes down to it he’s still a human doormat. 

Brad seems distracted, gaze somewhere just north of David’s head. He takes the opportunity to look. To _really_ look.

He looks at the lines of his face, the way his cheekbones catch the light. He looks at the scar on his nose, thinks to ask one day how he got it. He looks at his hair, at how much longer it’s grown since they first met. He looks at his eyes. He looks at his neck. He looks at his lips. 

And yeah, Brad’s attractive. David knows this. Brad surely knows this. He must have seen the way interns look at him. The way employees look at him. The way _David_ looks at him. 

David’s not embarrassed to find him attractive, but he can feel his cheeks heating up regardless.

He has to remind himself that Brad is the office’s resident asshole. He has to remind himself that Brad still has a distinct dominance over him, established the first day they met, when he kept standing - looming - even as David had sat down. He doesn’t know how he manages it: to come across non-threatening, docile like a dog exposing its stomach to be pet, only for the facade to splinter the second he wants something, when the wolf emerges, snarling and baring its sharpened teeth. 

Brad is skilled in his craft, in gently winding his fist around David’s neck as though he, himself, had begged on his knees for it. David knows this hand well, knows its unique language - how a touch to his shoulder means _I already know you’re going to do this for me_ ; how pressure on his wrist means _I own you_. He learns to hide his bruises around Brad; he’ll know exactly where to push to hurt him the most.

He’s cruel. He knows how to disguise abuse as trust, hate as love - how to make you believe you asked for it, that you owe him this. 

Everything is about debts to Brad. David wonders what the price will be for this evening; he might as well get what he’s paying for.

It’s the way Brad looks as he finishes his last drop of wine - fingers wrapped delicately around the stem, eyes lidded, throat bobbing - that makes David say: 

“I’ve got the same bottle of red at home. We could save some money?”

Brad looks as if to say _do I look like I need to save money?_ but instead, he smiles, distantly predatory. 

“Sure.”

-

That’s how they end up on David’s couch, empty bottle between them. Brad had withdrawn his _no talking_ rule somewhere between the second and third glass. 

“You know,” he begins, apropos of nothing, “you’re alright, Brittlesbee.”

“Thank you, I think?”

Brad moves the bottle to the floor, shifting the minutest bit closer, “If it’s any consolation, I’m glad you weren’t fired.”

“I didn’t know you cared,” he means it as a joke. It doesn’t sound like a joke.

“I don’t. I just don’t want to share an office with some washed-up computer nerd.”

The couch has a dip in the middle - that must be why David feels himself inching closer. 

“Do you think anyone would notice,” Brad starts, “if I left MQ?”

The question startles him. David thinks back to Brad’s tantrum, to the whole of Mythic Quest dissolving to chaos. He thinks of the empty office, of how his heart dropped to his feet as he took in the blank space, of his reaction compared to Poppy’s. 

He tries to think of his life without Brad in it; he’s shocked by how much the notion scares him. 

“I would.” And it’s the wine talking, must be. That’s why it comes out so fucking earnest. 

Brad is looking, eyes sharp, at a spot somewhere just below his nose, “yeah?”

“Is that-” he steels himself for the answer, “Is that something you want? To leave?”

Brad pauses to think, and for one dreadful moment, David fears the answer might be yes. 

“No.”

The relief is palpable; he can feel it, sugar-sweet, on his lips. He thinks briefly that he might let Brad taste it.

The thought comes out of nowhere, but David can’t pretend it’s a new one. He usually reserves these kinds of thoughts for when he’s alone in bed, for the nights he allows his hand to stray into his boxers. He’s spent a lot of time thinking about Brad’s lips.

The familiar heat starts low in his stomach. He doesn’t have the presence of mind to push it down. 

Brad’s watching him, eyes dark. The heat grows.

“David?”

“Mmm?” he likes the way Brad’s lips look around his name. He likes the way Brad’s tongue peaks out as he smirks. He definitely likes the way Brad leans in.

“I’ve always fucking hated your moustache.” 

And then they’re kissing.

It’s violent, teeth crashing like lightning in a thunderstorm. Brad’s hands are on either side of his face, deliberately dominant - _not that he’d expect any less_ \- in a way that makes David’s stomach flip. He takes advantage of the way David gasps into his mouth to lick his way in, tracing the top row of his teeth with his tongue. It’s all David can do to hold on. 

They shift. Brad positions him as he wants him and throws a leg over David’s lap, knees brushing his thighs. David’s hands find their way to Brad’s waist, rucking up his shirt to reveal a slither of brown skin, and, _fuck_ , he may look skinny but his stomach is pure muscle. He digs in his fingers, savouring the small moan it generates.

Brad sinks his nimble fingers into his hair and tugs, forcing David to bare his neck. It’s intended as an offering and Brad takes it as one, kissing down his throat. He sinks his teeth into the pale skin and David can’t prevent the way his hips buck up. 

He can feel the hard outline of Brad’s cock beside his own. 

“Oh, shit…”

Brad pulls away from where he was sucking what was sure to be an impressive mark into his neck. His eyes are black holes, irises barely visible, his lips puffy and bruised. David tightens his grip. 

“We doing this?” Brad asks.

“Think so.”

“Okay.” With that, he pulls David back in for a bruising kiss. 

And then he begins to grind his hips.

It shouldn’t have such an effect - their clothed crotches grinding together - but David’s harder than he’s been in a long time. He pulls Brad closer, still rutting against him like a teenager. Of course, Brad points it out, albeit breathily, “Desperate, Davie?”

David ignores him in favour of tugging on the other man’s shirt, “off.”

And yeah, _yeah_ , he couldn’t have sounded needier if he tried, but he was overworked, underfucked, and more than a little tipsy. Brad, thankfully, says nothing and follows David’s instructions for the first time in his life. 

For a traitorous moment, Brad’s hips stop their rhythmic rocking as he pulls off his sweater. David reaches for his shirt buttons with remarkably still hands and gets to work. With every inch of skin that’s uncovered, the heat grows. Except it’s no longer a heat, it’s a forest fire, wild and untamed as it licks up his spine with the accuracy of a pyromaniac. He wastes no time in wrapping his lips around an exposed nipple. 

Brad’s moan shocks them both. 

David trails kisses up Brad’s torso, up his neck, up his jaw, landing by his ear, teeth grazing his earlobe, “Desperate, Bakshi?”

“Shut up.” 

David mouths at his neck as he unzips the other man’s pants, exposing where Brad’s hard cock is leaking in his boxers. His mouth waters at the sight, at the sudden, desperate need to get his mouth on him. He, instead, licks a stripe down his palm. He looks up Brad before touching him, “this okay?”

“Yeah,” Brad breathes.

With that, David hooks his thumbs into his boxers, guiding them down his thighs until Brad’s cock springs free. He creates a loose fist and starts at the tip. Brad exhales shakily. 

He sets a rhythm, listening to the way Brad’s breath hitches for guidance. It’s not long before Brad starts bucking into his fist, somehow managing to angle his hips so that he’s rubbing against David’s crotch at the same time and, _fuck_ , David doesn’t want to come in his pants like a teen boy, but that might be exactly what’s about to happen. 

One of Brad’s hands is back in his hair, grasp just this side of too firm. It’s overwhelming, everything is. He can taste Brad’s cologne on his tongue. 

He speeds up his ministrations on his dick until Brad’s shaking apart against him. He slips his knee between David’s thighs, applying just the right amount of pressure and-

_God._

Brad’s fingers wrap themselves around David’s neck, and squeeze, “You gonna come for me, Brittlesbee?”

And really, David never stood a chance. 

-

“What am I supposed to do, David?”

_Right_. Brad’s half-dressed in his bedroom. Jo’s arrival is imminent. 

The situation feels far bigger than just the _here_ and _now_. David knows he has to stop Brad from walking out that door, knows it like it’s written into his DNA - a primal instinct - because otherwise… Well, otherwise they’d go back to normal, back to fleeting glances around the office, too paranoid to look for more than a moment, too scared to think what it might mean if they did. They’d go back to dancing around each other, to fingers brushing in lifts and too brief shoulder pats after meetings. And it would be fine. It would be normal.

David doesn’t think he can deal with that. 

He can’t go back now, not after he’d given in to the desire to touch, not now he knows how easily their bodies fit together. David doesn’t want to _just_ _look_ anymore.

And the urgency of it terrifies him.

“Come with me to the office,” he blurts, and Brad pauses from buttoning his shirt, “Yeah, that way I can say that I called you over to come in with me.”

Brad stares at him blankly, “That… literally makes no sense. Why wouldn’t I have driven myself?”

_Fuck, good point. But..._

“They’ll believe it! They’re, uh…”

“Idiots?”

David nods. Brad exhales heavily out his nose, “Fine.”

It feels like a victory.

They get dressed side by side; the domesticity isn’t lost on David. It’s nice, familiar. He thinks maybe he wouldn’t mind having to share the TV remote again.

“David--” Brad’s looking at him funny, like he wants to say something, but he’s cut off by the doorbell. There’s a brief pause before the doorbell rings again, accompanied by frantic knocking.

Before David can open the door fully, Jo is forcing her way in. She looks between them suspiciously. At least, David thinks that look is suspicion; she looks at everyone that way.

“Why’s he here?” 

“Well-”

“Are you two fucking?”

Brad turns to him, amused little smirk on his face, seemingly fully content to sit back and watch the shit show unfold. _Dig yourself out of this one, asshole._

David panics, “No! No, Jo. Brad and I are not- That’s very unprofessional of you to ask such a- We’re not-”

She grimaces, “Ew, you totally are. Gross.”

“Jo-” He really doesn’t know why he tries, it’s a lost cause already.

“Whatever, just get in the car,” already bored of this conversation, Jo starts to walk away, “Oh, and David: I can give you some concealer for…” She gestures vaguely to her own neck. 

He turns to Brad, who, still smirking like the self-righteous bastard he is, is mimicking Jo’s gesture. David checks the mirror by the door, gasping as he takes in the multitude of bruises littering his neck. He trails a finger over the vague imprint of Brad’s hand and his dick makes a valiant attempt to stir in his briefs.

Somewhere outside, Jo honks her horn. Somewhere outside, David’s neighbours are startled awake. Somewhere outside, there’s an office of angry co-workers locked in a shouting match, waiting for him to turn up and sort it out. 

But here, in the dark interior of his living room, which feels as though it’s never lived up to its name before today, Brad is smiling at him. His hair is a mess and he has an imprint of David’s comforter on his arm and his shirt collar is uneven and David thinks this might be what love is.

So, he says the only other thing that feels big enough:

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t.”


End file.
